Moments of Grief
by DarkestSight
Summary: They carry their grief with them no matter where or when they go.


_A.N. #1 This is me experimenting with imagery and setting. Blame my occasional poetic side or the fact I've been watching too many artsy multifandom videos on YouTube. I started this in the summer and then got stuck, so it sat on my computer 95% done for months and I'm still not completely happy with it, but it's finally finished! Just keep in mind most of this was written before the second season started airing which is how they end up meeting Louis the XV as well as Louis the XIII._

 _A.N. #2 Set between seasons 1 and 2. Mostly gen but there are hints of all sorts of relationships in here so take them as you'd like to see them._

 **Moments of Grief**

 **by DarkestSight**

I.

They're in Versailles in 1752 and have just met King Louis XV. Hanging around his neck over a frilly collar and finely embroidered robe, mounted in an elaborate pendant is the French Blue, the large blue jewel that would one day be known as the Hope Diamond.

Mick's eyes light up the moment they catch sight of its gleaming, multifaceted surface and his lips spread wide forming a wicked grin; then suddenly, the grin vanishes, the eyes dim, and Mick's whole body seems to slump.

"I'm surprised you didn't suggest we steal it," says Ray as they walk through the gardens outside the palace, giant sculpted fountains spouting giant streams of water on either side of them.

Mick lets out a snort, a tired huff of air. "It wouldn't be the same without Snart," he says.

II.

They're in Dehli in 1857 and are wandering through the Moonlight Square though it's the sun and not the moon which lights their way. The smell of spices and the cries of vendors fill the air as they walk along the line of shops.

Among the goods loaded on the wooden stalls, a sandalwood jewelry box catches Sara's eye. Its lid and sides are etched with spiralling vines, tiny blossoming flowers, and birds caught in mid-flight. She picks it up and breathes in its warm, woody scent.

It's the perfect gift for her sister. The birds might not be meant to be canaries but they're canary-like in spirit and Sara smiles as she imagines the look on Laurel's face when she gives it to her. She's trying to figure out if she has enough money left to pay for it when she remembers.

The colour drains from the world and a cold emptiness envelops her.

"You buying or just going to stand there staring?" demands the elderly shopkeeper.

Numbly, Sara shakes her head and places the box back where she found it.

III.

They're in Melbourne in 2076 and Rip and Mick are walking along the downtown streets where the few remaining historic buildings are dwarfed by the hundreds of skyscrapers which line the streets like gigantic silver spikes piercing upward into the blue sky. They're weaving between the crowds of colourfully dressed people streaming along the sidewalks, trying to get to the outskirts of the city where the Waverider is parked and the rest of the team is waiting for them, when Rip sees Miranda.

She's strolling along the sidewalk a dozen feet ahead of them. She's wearing a flowing blouse in her favourite shade of bright red and carrying a large canvas bag full of shopping over one shoulder. Her long dark hair, that Rip always loved to coil around his fingers as they kissed, is down and sways slightly as she walks.

Rip's mouth goes dry. He wants to call out her name but his throat closes up refusing to let a single syllable through. He rushes forward pushing through the mobs of people as he desperately tries to reach her. He desperately wants to reach her, touch her, see her smile, hear her voice, but he's only gone a few steps when she turns and he catches sight of the woman's profile.

It's not her. Of course, it's not her, he berates himself. It couldn't be her. Miranda was never in Australia in 2076. Miranda, his wife, would never go to Australia in 2076. His wife is dead.

"What?" asks Mick as he catches up with him. "What'd you see?"

"Nothing," says Rip, his voice cracked and hollow. "I just thought... It's nothing."

Mick claps a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, English," he says. "I think you could use a drink." And he pulls Rip in the direction of the nearest bar.

IV.

They're in Korea in 1951 during the middle of the war and Ray keeps making M*A*S*H jokes.

He stops making them when he, Sara, and Mick find themselves trapped in a small, abandoned hut, its mud walls and thatched roof threatening to tumble down around them as bombs fall from the sky, the exploding shells shaking the ground beneath them, their blasts echoing through the surrounding hills.

The three sit against one wall waiting for the shelling to end, shoulder to shoulder, Ray squashed between Sara and Mick, either for comfort or protection though they'll deny both if you ask. They're pressed so close Ray finds himself staring at Sara's hand as she rests it upon her knee and at the many rings adorning her fingers. He can't help noticing one of them is surprisingly familiar.

"Hey, isn't that Leonard's ring?" he says, his voice almost lost beneath the explosion of another fallen shell.

Sara twists the silver pinky ring around her finger and nods. "Yup."

Frowning, his expression one of innocent confusion, Ray turns to Mick. "I thought Snart left that ring for you?"

Mick shrugs, a tiny rock of his broad shoulders. "Doesn't fit me."

Another explosion. The shack shakes and dust rains down from the ceiling.

"But why..." Ray coughs, clears his throat. "...why Sara?"

Sara smiles a sad smile. "Because Leonard Snart is one hell of a thief," is all she says.

V.

They're in Florence in 1504 but despite Martin's pleas have yet to meet Leonardo da Vinci. This is where Rip and Sara find themselves dancing together for the second time though now it's in colourful Renaissance finery rather than elegant 1970s evening wear. They dance to stately music among Italy's richest and noblest inside a grand ballroom, a finely crafted ceiling arching over their heads, a polished marble floor beneath their feet.

"Where did you learn to dance?" Sara asks as they promenade hand in hand across the floor. "I don't imagine it's something the Time Masters taught you."

"The Time Masters taught me many things," Rip replies, "but no, they didn't teach me to dance."

The promenade ends and they turn to face each other forming two long lines with the rest of the dancers. The men bow. The women curtsy.

"So where'd you learn?" Sara asks as they turn one way and then the other, weaving around each other, shoulder facing shoulder.

"Miranda taught me," he says. "She..." He stops and says no more.

Sara doesn't press him. She knows some things are still too painful to talk about, some memories still too heartbreaking to remember.

Shoulder to shoulder, they lock hands and spin around the room until they finally spot their mark and quietly excuse themselves from the dance floor.

VI.

They're in the Canadian Artic in 1845 at sea on the HMS Erebus and Jax, much to his chagrin, is horrifically seasick. Sir John Franklin is searching for the Northwest Passage and the crew of the Waverider are searching for a way off the ship before it and its companion ship, the HMS Terror, get stuck in ice and everyone dies.

As Martin takes care of Jax below, Rip and Mick stand at the fore of the creaking ship staring past the bowsprit and the endless waves at the approaching icebergs as they try to come up with a plan. A light dusting of snow covers everything from the deck to the sails to the rigging, and the heavy white clouds looming above and the chill smell in the air seem to indicate more is on the way.

"We could always mutiny," suggests Mick without the slightest bit of irony as he leans against the rail.

"Let's leave that as a last resort shall we," says Rip. He wraps his arms around his chest as he tries to keep the chill from his bones. "If worst comes to worst, we wait until we're stuck in the ice, sneak away, and have the others pick us up."

Mick gives an unimpressed snort. "Snart would know what to do," he says, his face taking on the blank, closed off look it always takes when he talks about his former partner in crime. "Snart would have taken over the ship and had the skull and crossbones flying from the mainmast by now."

Rip lets out a slow breath, a wispy cloud forming and fading in front of him. "Mr. Snart would have made an excellent pirate," he says quietly.

"Hell, yeah," says Mick with unarguable conviction.

VII.

They're in Vietnam in 248 and the long time jump has everyone's insides feeling as if they've been put through a blender. They park the Waverider among a sea of green hills and walk through a misty valley past terraced paddy fields which flow over the hills like giant stairways and head towards a dense tangle of trees searching for something forgotten lost through time.

Instead they find Lady Trieu who emerges from the jungle with her army, a group of tired men wearing mismatched armour and carrying sharpened halberds. Sara admires the warrior woman's twin swords and her ringing voice while Mick admires her golden armour and Ray and Jax the elephant she rides, but it's Sara who grows close to her.

What follows involves a certain amount of deception, some careful manoeuvring, and a few misunderstandings, but they manage to retrieve the object, a 25th century holographic orb, and avoid disrupting or becoming part of Lady Trieu's rebellion against Imperial China.

After they say their goodbyes and start making their way back to the Waverider, Martin says to Sara, "I'm surprised the two of you didn't hook up."

"Too many memories," says Sara, a haunted look in her eye.

"She remind you of your old girlfriend?" asks Martin. "Nyssa, I believe her name was."

"No," Sara replies with a sigh, "my sister."

VIII.

They're train hopping across the American Midwest in 1902 in an empty, wooden freight car that smells overwhelmingly of potatoes. The car rattles and sways, the clank of the wheels a constant background noise as Sara sits in the open doorway, legs dangling over the side, eyes watching the neverending fields of wheat and corn go by.

She turns to look at Rip who's curled up in a corner of the car and catches him gazing at his pocket watch and the photo of his wife and son he keeps hidden within.

"You're doing it again," she tells him.

Rip closes the watch and carefully puts it away in an inner pocket of the grimy, threadbare clothes he wears. "I know it's stupid," he says, "but I'm afraid if I don't keep reminding myself, I'll forget, forget what they look like, what they sound like, what they smell like." He takes in a deep breath and lets out a long, weary sigh. "And if I forget..."

"It'll be like losing them all over again," Sara finishes for him. A hand reaches up to the necklace around her neck, touches the charm there, turns it over in her fingers. "Yeah," she says, "I know what you mean."

IX.

They're in Canterbury in 1481 and the rain has drenched Mick and Rip to the bone. They take shelter in the cathedral to escape the torrents pouring from the dark gray sky, even the gothic spires inviting in the unending downpour.

The inside of the cathedral is dim and full of shadows. It smells of damp dust and old stone, and the vaulted ceiling is so high every sound echoes and echoes and echoes. They shake the worst of the rain from themselves and wander through the gloom saying nothing, even Mick struck dumb by the grandness of their sanctuary, the vast structure of carved stone arching above them. They pass colossal columns and colourful stained glass windows, looming statues and forgotten tombs. On an unadorned altar, they come across several rows of candles, some lit, some dark, and acting on some unknown impulse, Rip picks up two of the unlit candles, lights one, and then the other.

"Didn't know you were religious," says Mick, gruffly.

"I'm not," Rip quietly replies. "I haven't been for a long time."

Mick frowns. "Then why light them?"

Rip offers a self-conscious shrug. "Someone once told me that lighting a candle for those you've lost will help guide them on their way. A silly superstition I know but..." He trails off, eyes staring unfocused at the recently lit candles.

Mick grunts but instead of mocking Rip as expected, picks up another unlit candle, lights it, and places it beside Rips'.

The candle flames flicker, tiny lights in the darkness.

X.

They're in Machu Picchu in 1523 and have run afoul of an Incan queen. They run, a panorama of green mountain tops surrounding them, a horde of angry Incan warriors following behind them. They run over the mountain ridge upon which the city sits. They run down the stairways between the stacked terraces. They run past the buildings made of polished dry-stone. They run in hope of reaching the Waverider before the horde does.

They fail.

Tired as she is, tired of the struggle, tired of the pain, Sara embraces the fight. She ducks and spins and dances between the warriors, her bo-staff sweeping graceful arcs through the air. She feels the edge of the blood lust that always dogs her and for once gives in. Afterwards there is nothing but the pounding of her heart in her ears and the fear in her enemies' eyes as they fall before her. The world is red and she can't tell if the blood is theirs or hers.

Eventually, the number of enemies thins and she searches for more. A man approaches, broad-shouldered and shaved head, and she prepares to attack but pauses when she feels a flicker of recognition, and then there is a fist coming towards her, and then there is only darkness.

Sara wakes to find herself lying on a bed in the Medbay, the remnants of an ache in her head.

"Did it work?" asks Rip, seated on a stool beside her. There's no condemnation in his eyes, just weariness and an old weight. "Did it make the pain go away?"

"For a moment," Sara says, her throat dry, her eyes damp. "But only for a moment."

Rip wraps a hand around hers, fingers intertwining as the tears silently fall.

XI.

They're in Philadelphia in 1933 and have been hanging out with Willie Sutton, a fast talking, chain smoking bank robber famous for not firing a single shot during his criminal career, never finishing a job if a woman screamed or a baby cried, and escaping prison three times. There's something achingly familiar about the man's charm and cunning and disrespect for the law, enough that afterwards Mick and Sara find themselves in desperate need of a drink.

They end up seated at the bar of a small speakeasy hidden in the back of what was once a grand hotel before the Depression hit. There are too few patrons for them to start a brawl and frankly neither are in the mood, so they decide on a rematch. The barman pulls down a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and lines up the shots along the stained wooden surface of the bar.

He's half way to losing again when Mick who never talks about feelings asks, "Did you love him?" When Sara looks questioningly at him, he adds, "Snart, I mean."

Sara gazes down at the drink in her hand shifting the glass around so the amber liquid reflects the orange-yellow light of the lamp hanging above. "I don't know," she says honestly. "I never really had the chance to find out." She downs the shot in one smooth motion. She doesn't even feel the burn anymore.

"Did you?" she asks, turning her eyes to Mick. "Love him, I mean."

Mick doesn't answer. He just downs his shot and reaches for the next. He doesn't have to answer. It wouldn't hurt so much if he hadn't.

XII.

They're in Iceland in 1783 and Lakagígar, the volcanic fissure, has recently erupted spewing forth gases that will change the climate of the entire world. The skies are dark, the air stinks of sulfur, and a layer of ash coats everything from the grassy fields to the rocky hills to the small, stone houses.

Amidst this hell, they manage to save a small village from an outpouring of lava including an eight-year-old boy with dusty blond hair and bright blue eyes. The boy smiles widely at them and waves as they leave the tiny cluster of houses and head back along the ash covered fields towards the Waverider.

A short while later Rip takes to his study and begins tearing the place apart. Chairs and tables are overturned, books are tossed through the air, papers are scattered across the floor, ceramic jugs are smashed, glass bottles are shattered, the collected treasures of a decade of travelling throughout time are pushed or flung or struck and sent crashing and clattering about the room.

Sara finds him an hour or so later sitting among the wreckage, his hands bruised and bloody. Not saying anything, she helps him to his feet and leads him down to the medbay where she cleans his hands and helps Gideon fix as much of the damage as the A.I. can, knowing well there's some damage that can't be fixed.

XIII.

They're in Cape Town in 2037 eating lamb bobotie out of containers made of an odd transparent metal and drinking Australian wine as they sit on the edge of Table Mountain watching the bright lights of the city below and the flashing streaks of high speed boats going out to sea while the sun sets with an orange fire.

It had been a good day. The timeline was saved once again. No one was hurt. Nobody died.

Jax and Ray sit side by side going over their recent mission, punctuating the exaggerated highlights with enthusiastic hand gestures between bites of food. Mick is on his second helping, shovelling forkfuls of spiced meat into his mouth, only stopping occasionally to correct Jax and Ray's account of things or to add his own colourful commentary. Martin has fallen asleep resting against an old stone wall, his half-finished meal and empty wine glass lying beside him, the dying rays of the sun glinting off his glasses. Rip eats quietly, giving a tiny crooked smile every now and again as he enjoys the food, the scenery, and the company. Sara sits beside him. She's laughing at something Mick said when her expression suddenly goes from joy to sorrow.

"I wish he was here to see this," she says.

No one needs to ask who she means.

XIV.

They're in the temporal zone, flying through a whirling storm of green, and Mick is getting restless again.

No one is sure what has set him off. Whatever the reason, the simmering fire that always exists just beneath his skin has reignited, the dancing flames alight in his eyes. His footsteps echo through the metal corridors as he stomps around the ship glaring at Jax, growling at Martin, and snapping at Ray. When he comes close to landing a few blows on Rip, Sara pulls him aside into the cargo bay and demands to know what's going on.

"None of your business," he growls yanking his arm away as he begins to pace back and forth across the small room like a lion trapped in a cage.

"It's Snart, isn't it?" says Sara, bluntly.

"Don't be stupid," says Mick, scowling. "Snart died months ago. Why the hell would his death be bothering me now?"

The look on Sara's face is one of heartbreaking sympathy. "It doesn't matter if Snart died yesterday or years ago. He was your best friend, for a long time your only friend, and he's gone."

She expects fury. She expects denial. She expects a loud outburst of violence and rage. Instead, Mick collapses onto a storage crate and places his head in his hands.

Sara sits down beside him. She gazes unseeingly across the room as she says, "You know we never had a funeral for Snart, never got a chance to say goodbye. I missed my sister's funeral too, and it's not like Rip got to have one for his family. Maybe we should do something, have some sort of memorial just the three of us."

For a while, there is only silence and Sara wonders if maybe she made a mistake, if she said the wrong thing, and then Mick slowly raises his head and says, "I've got an idea."

XV.

They're in a rocky clearing in the middle of a forest half-way up a mountain. It doesn't matter where. It doesn't matter when.

They bring old rotting boards. They bring broken crates. They bring whatever scraps of wood they can find, pile them into a heap, and cover them with armfuls of fallen branches collected from the forest.

Then they add the other things: a pink shirt Sara once borrowed from Laurel and never returned, a hairbrush Miranda left behind the last time she stayed on the Waverider, her long dark hairs still clinging to it, a clay sculpture of a bird Jonas once made for his father, Leonard's blue parka.

They stand and stare at them a long time. They know this won't make things better. They know nothing will ever make things better, but maybe it will make things easier.

Mick lifts his heat gun and fires.

The pile of wood catches light quickly, orange flames spreading from one end to the other, surging upward in a flickering dance.

At first, they only watch, mesmerized by the blaze, but then slowly they begin to talk. They talk about the ones they lost, about what they loved and what they hated, about what had been and what would never be. They talk as the crackling flames devour the wood and their treasured possessions, blackening them as they turn into ash and dust.

And if eyes grow red, noses sniff, and voices catch, it's all blamed on the smoke from the fire, the dark wispy haze passing through them as it rises from the flames and drifts up into the sky.


End file.
